She woke each morning with a knot of dread, knowing the day would bring her brother's growing paranoia and delusions. But her dream last night had been different. She had seen a youth with black hair and violet eyes locked in battle against a faceless horde. His form shifted, first into a great wolf, then into a dragon that breathed fire upon his enemies. His face remained blurred, yet she felt an inexplicable connection to him.
Daenerys forced herself not to linger on the dream. It would do her no good to be late in greeting Viserys for their morning meal; lateness could rouse his temper, and she would wake the dragon. Rising from her featherbed, she summoned the maids Magister Illyrio had provided.
They came quickly, helping her shed her night-robe before guiding her into a steaming bath, the water heated just as she preferred. When she emerged, skin flushed from the warmth, they dressed her in a gown of violet silk. The color deepened the shade of her eyes, a detail that pleased her faintly, though she said nothing.
She made her way to break her fast, finding her brother already seated with Magister Illyrio. Daenerys had disliked the magister from the moment of their first meeting, though she remained courteous; they lived beneath his roof, and she had little choice.
The two men were speaking in low tones, but their words ceased the instant they noticed her.
"You look quite beautiful today, princess," Illyrio intoned smoothly, his gaze lingering in a way that made her feel unsafe.
"Of course she does, Illyrio," Viserys replied with a thin smile. "She has the blood of the dragon, no matter how weak."
He had always called her weak. Once, long ago, there had been a time when he had looked at her as though she were his whole world. But that was before their hunger, before their exile hardened into desperation. The last straw had been when he sold their mother's crown; after that, something in him had broken, and the brother she remembered was gone.
"You both look well this morning," Daenerys answered politely, keeping her voice even, her courtesy a fragile shield against their words.
The servants brought figs, flatbread, and honey, setting them before the three of them. Dany sat quietly, breaking her bread into small pieces while Viserys leaned closer to Illyrio, eager to hear whatever honeyed words the magister chose to share.
"The time will come soon, my prince," Illyrio said, smiling beneath his forked beard. "The lords of Westeros grow fat and lazy, while their kingdom rots from within. A strong hand may yet seize what was stolen."
Viserys' eyes lit up, the way they always did when someone spoke of crowns and thrones. "And I am that hand. They will remember the dragon when I return."
Dany listened, but said nothing. She had heard such talk before. Always talk of armies and banners, but never food for the hungry or coin for the cold nights they had endured.
Illyrio reached for a fig and glanced at her, his smile widening. "When the dragon returns, he will not be alone. A queen beside him strengthens his claim."
Viserys' fingers tightened on his cup. "A queen, yes," he said, his voice sharper than before. His eyes slid toward her, and Dany lowered hers to her plate, the bread turning to ash in her mouth.
She thought of her dream then, the blurred face of the boy who had become wolf and dragon both, and wondered why that felt more real than the promises of the magister or the fire in her brother's eyes.
The rest of the day followed the same monotonous rhythm she had grown used to since arriving in Pentos. Her brother disappeared with Illyrio, no doubt filling his head with questions of thrones, banners, and armies. She, as always, was left behind, confined to the manse or shut in her chamber whenever the magister received important guests.
Yet whispers carried more freely in the halls than her brother believed. Servants spoke when they thought no one was listening. That day, they gossiped about the sellswords who had come through Illyrio's gates, a new company sworn to his service.
Their leader, they said, was a youth with black hair and eyes the color of deep violet. At that, Dany stilled. Her dream came rushing back, the blurred face, the shifting forms, the fire.
The servants went on, giggling over how handsome he was, how he carried himself with the rugged cast of one born in Westeros. Some claimed his eyes mirrored hers, or Viserys'.
A Valyrian bastard, perhaps. Or a stray son of House Velaryon, she thought. The thought lingered with her long after the whispers had faded, unsettling and strangely comforting all at once.
She sat herself on the window of her room, staring out at the narrow streets of Pentos, but her thoughts drifted across the sea. She tried to picture the land her brother called home. The Seven Kingdoms, Viserys spoke of them often, though always with venom and longing.
King's Landing, where the Red Keep rose above the city, was a place her brother named their true home. It was there the Iron Throne sat, forged by Aegon the Conqueror from the swords of his enemies, a throne Viserys swore would one day be his. Dragonstone, too, the ancestral seat of their house, was theirs by right, though it had been stolen and given to others.
She imagined the North as Viserys described it, bleak, endless snow and stone, ruled by Eddard Stark, the Usurper's dog. There was the Wall too, a vast curtain of ice at the edge of the world, though she wondered if it was truly as grand as the tales claimed.
The Vale of Arryn, with its impregnable Eyrie in the sky, where no enemy could set foot unless they had wings. The Riverlands, fertile and oft-fought over, where lords bent like reeds with every shifting power. The Westerlands, glittering with gold but said to be filled with lions who tore apart her family.
The Reach, green and bountiful, a land her brother mocked as soft, yet one whose harvests fed half the realm. She thought of gardens, of bright flowers and laughter, though she had only ever known hunger.
The storm-swept land of Storm's End, once held by the usurper Robert Baratheon himself, who had murdered her father and stolen her crown.
And Dorne… her brother always spoke of them with contempt, but she wondered. The Dornish had fought her ancestors more fiercely than any other, and though defeated, they had bent the knee only on their own terms. They had married dragons once, and perhaps they might again.
But it was not her home. Her home was the one she remembered in Braavos, with the lemon tree outside the red door. There she had felt safe, and there her brother had been happy, or at least happier than he was now.
She remembered Ser Willem Darry, the old knight who had sheltered them. He had always called her princess, bowing with a gentleness that made her smile. His voice was soft, his hands frail, yet his presence had been a wall against the world. When he lived, she had not been afraid.
When he died, everything had changed. They had been driven from that house, sent adrift again, with only each other. Viserys had grown harder since then, bitter and sharp where once he had been warm. For her, the house with the red door remained the only place she could call home.
"Daydreaming again?" The voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Viserys stood in the doorway, pale hair tangled from the wind, his eyes bright with that feverish gleam she had come to dread.
"I was only thinking," she said softly.
"Thinking does not win back thrones. You should spend less time staring at clouds and more time remembering who you are." He stepped into the room, looking her over with a scowl. "Illyrio has invited us to dine tonight. Wear the blue silk. I will not have you looking like some beggar's whelp when you are blood of the dragon."
"I am always the one who must look the part," she murmured, before she could stop herself.
Viserys's head snapped up, his expression darkening. "Do not take that tone with me. You are nothing without me, do you hear? Nothing. It is for you to obey, for me to lead. I am your king, and you will do well to remember that."
His eyes bored into her, waiting for her submission. For a heartbeat, she met his stare, then let it fall, as she always did.
Her gaze dropped, meek as ever, but the words still burned on her tongue. And yet you need me to play your princess. To smile when you command it, to wear the gowns you choose, to bow when you rage. Without me, what would you be, brother?
"Yes, brother," she said at last, but her voice was flat.
He studied her a moment longer, as though weighing whether to strike, then turned away, muttering about crowns and armies and the fools who denied him.
Daenerys lingered by the window, watching his shadow vanish down the hall. The red door was gone, and Braavos with it. What remained was this manse, her brother's dreams, and the walls that closed tighter each day.
The red door was gone, but perhaps somewhere another door waited, one she might one day open for herself.
[A/N] -
Hey everyone! Thanks for following along with this story. Updates have been a little slower lately because I'm taking time to read through the A Song of Ice and Fire novels again, it helps me capture the tone and details more faithfully, but it does mean less time for writing. I'd love to hear what you think of the story so far. Your feedback really helps keep me motivated.
Thanks for reading!